That gentle brush-off.
It doesn’t sting. Not exactly. It just . . . lands wrong. Settles in my chest in a way I don’t like.
“I’m going to shower. Relax, okay?”
I nod, sinking back into his comfy bed as he vanishes into the en suite. The second the water kicks on, my hand’s already twitching toward my phone.
Seven a.m. on a Saturday. Way too early for my brain to be churning like this. I don’tmeanto look up the conference. I just . . . want to imagine him there. Standing on stage, all commanding and brilliant, using those posh vowels to save the world.
For totally normal, non-anxious reasons, I tap into the ticket section.
There are tickets. Plenty of them. Not just for medical bigwigs either—there’s a public option, still wide open.
My heart gives an uneven thud as I stare at the screen. Maybe it was my dumb questions earlier. Maybe that’s when he decided I’d be a liability tagging along. Millie wouldn’t have asked that stuff. That stunning doctor from the hospital wouldn’t have either.
I lock my phone, letting it drop onto the bed.Seriously, Daisy, get a grip. Why’d you have to blurt out “Oh, can I tag along?”
What’s wrong with me? I’m already here, sprawled out in his bed, in his life. We’re spending time together, the sex is incredible—why push it?
I take a steadying breath and sink deeper into the sheets. I’m being ridiculous.
He stands there, adjusting his tie with the kind of anal retention that makes my butterflies take flight. It’s the way his jaw flexes as he pulls it tight that’s weirdly hot. He looks every inch the powerful man—the kind of man who makes decisions thatmatter.
My mouth literally waters.
It’s also the waistcoat. Waistcoats should be banned. Too sexy. Too authoritative. I am one second away from throwing myself at him and pulling at that tie with my teeth.
Meanwhile, I’m still tangled in the sheets like some sort of Victorian mistress watching her gentleman caller prepare to go off and be important.
I stretch, yawning. “Guess I’ll get ready too.”
Before I can move, he sits on the edge of the bed and places a hand on my thigh.
“Stay,” he says. “Enjoy a bath. Relax.”
I blink up at him. “You’re encouraging me to be lazy? Whoareyou, and what have you done with Dr. Cavendish?”
His lips twitch. “Just stay. Please. It’s early. Just because I’m getting up doesn’t mean you have to. You work late nights; you need your sleep.”
I beam. “You sure you don’t want rid of me?”
He absently brushes his thumb over my thigh. “If I wanted to get rid of you, I wouldn’t be telling you to take a bath and make yourself comfortable in my home.”
Well, then.
I open my mouth, but nothing remotely intelligent comes out, so I just nod mutely.
“Very good, my darling,” he murmurs, standing smoothly.
My soul leaves my body. Because that right there? That’s the posh equivalent of “good girl.” It’s like being praised by Mr. Darcy after he discovered Christian Grey’s red room.
As if suddenly realizing what he’s said, he clears his throat awkwardly and checks his watch.
I sit up sharply, the duvet slipping down to my waist, and his gaze flickers down.
I smirk. Gotcha.
I watch, smug, as his nostrils flare.
